Page 57 of Unholy Confessions
"RJ! Open the door!" EJ's voice carries through the wood, urgent and commanding.
I don't move. I can't move. The rational part of my brain knows I should let him in, that I asked for the help. But there's another part of me, the part that's been spiraling for months, that wants to tell him to go away. That wants to do the lines on the table and forget that text message ever happened.
"RJ, I swear to God, if you don't open this door in the next ten seconds, I'm breaking it down!" EJ shouts.
"Go away," I croak, but my voice is so weak I doubt he can hear me.
The pounding gets louder, more insistent. "Son, please," my dad's voice joins in. "We're here to help. Just open the door."
Closing my eyes, the tears come harder as I hear him. Dad came. When I asked for help, he came. I look at the cocaine again. It would be so easy. Two minutes, and all of this pain would disappear. The memory of Montgomery's face, the crushing weight of disappointing everyone who's ever cared about me, the constant pressure to be someone I'm not sure I actually am anymore—all of it could just fade away.
But then I remember the photo I sent them. The text message. I think I need help.
Do I want help? Or do I just want someone to witness my destruction?
"I'm coming in!" EJ yells, and I hear something slam against the door. "RJ, get away from whatever you're about to do!"
The door frame cracks on the second hit, and on the third, my brother and father burst through like some kind of intervention SWAT team. They both freeze when they see me sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, the drugs laid out, ready for me to take them.
"Jesus Christ," Dad breathes, taking in the scene.
EJ moves first, quickly sweeping the cocaine off the table and onto the floor, grinding it into the carpet with his boot. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
I can't answer. I can't do anything but sit there and cry, these horrible, gut-wrenching sobs that sound like they're being torn out of me.
"How long?" Dad asks, sitting down on the floor next to me. His voice is gentler than EJ's, but I can hear the fear underneath it.
"I don't know," I choke out. "The Adderall... a few months? The other stuff... a few weeks. Maybe longer. Time doesn't... I can't keep track anymore."
"A few weeks?" EJ runs his hands through his hair, pacing behind the couch. "RJ, you've been acting strange for months. Don't lie to us now."
"I'm not lying!" The words come out as a shout, surprising all of us. "I don't know, okay? I don't know when it started or when it got bad or when I stopped being able to control it. I just know that I can't... I can't do this anymore."
The admission hangs in the air between us, and I feel simultaneously relieved and terrified to have said it out loud.
"What happened?" Dad asks. "What made you send that picture?"
"Montgomery left me." The words taste disgusting in my mouth. "She came over and I was... God, I was so fucked up. I said terrible things to her. She told me she was done, and she walked out."
"And?" EJ prompts, though his voice has lost some of its edge.
"And Jared came over, yelling that I need help. That I'm going to kill myself if I keep going like this. But I didn't listen because I thought I could handle it. I thought if I could just make it through the tour, if I could just hold it together a little longer..." I trail off, because even to me, it sounds insane.
"But you can't hold it together," Dad says, and it's not accusatory. It's just a fact.
"No," I whisper. "I can't. I don't know how to change, and I don't know how to stop, and I'm so fucking scared all the time that I can barely breathe."
EJ stops pacing and crouches down in front of me. "Scared of what?"
"Everything." The word comes out broken. "Failing. Disappointing everyone. Not being good enough. Being found out as a fraud. Montgomery realizing she's too good for someone like me. The music not meaning anything. The tour being a disaster. Letting down the fans. Letting down the band. Letting you down." I take a shuddering breath. "Dying alone because I pushed away everyone who ever cared about me."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear the distant sound of traffic outside, can hear my father's slightly labored breathing.
"You're not going to die alone," EJ says finally. "But you might die if you keep doing this to yourself."
"I know." The words are barely audible. "I know, but I don't know how to stop. I've tried to cut back on the pills, tried to tell myself I don't want the other stuff anymore, but then I have a bad day or Montgomery looks at me like she doesn't recognize me, and I just... I can't handle the feelings. I can't handle being in my own head."
Dad reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder. "That's what treatment is for, son. To teach you how to handle those feelings without destroying yourself."
